


From the Darkness

by gravesecret, kamextoise



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Homunculi, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 13:51:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18812212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gravesecret/pseuds/gravesecret, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kamextoise/pseuds/kamextoise
Summary: What he knows and doesn’t know seems random. It’s irritating, and maybe a little frightening. It’s the world’s most inconvenient amnesia, affecting absolutely everything but his ability to think, and whatever terms decide to make themselves known in his mind.





	From the Darkness

The first thing he’s aware of is pain, muscles screaming in distress, blood running down his… he’s not sure. It could be his throat, it could be his arm. It could be his lungs for all he knows, his insides a jumbled mess on the outside of his body. Language escapes him, and there’s nothing but agony and fear, and a wrongness welling out from deep inside of him. He can’t understand what’s happening around him; there’s loud shrieking pained wails, and then a sickening noise like a large blade sinking through flesh before things fall silent. Something presses into his mouth, and he opens it reflexively, feeling small somethings touch his tongue. Sweet, and strange. It’s almost coppery, and for a long while all he does is eat.

How much time passes, he can’t know. By the time he’s aware of his surroundings, the pain has stopped. He sits up gingerly, taking in the space around him carefully, warily. In a heap of blood on the floor lies a… thing. Covered in fur, a human torso wrapped around it backwards. Even as strange as everything feels, even though he remembers nothing, he knows the thing is dead just by looking at it.

He’s barely able to suppress the urge to kick it.

The room he’s in is little more than a large shack, barely any light in it at all. Even so, he has no trouble making out his surroundings; the floor is almost completely covered in a large design he isn’t sure he can identify. It’s been drawn with what’s probably chalk, and though the wood is damp in places, it doesn’t look like the moisture has damage the design at all.

 _It’s alchemy,_ something in his mind supplies, and he’s at a complete loss as to what it could possibly mean. Alchemy? He can’t recall what that is right now. He can recognize some things—he’s sitting on the floor, there’s a chair in the corner, the ceiling is leaking from a hole in the roof. It’s storming outside.

What he knows and doesn’t know seems random. It’s irritating, and maybe a little frightening. It’s the world’s most inconvenient amnesia, affecting absolutely everything but his ability to think, and whatever terms decide to make themselves known in his mind.

Movement from the corner catches his attention before he can even register what it is, tensing, ready for a fight. Where the instinct comes from, he can’t say, but his arms are already out to attack when the figure approaches. The man is so pale he’s surprised he isn’t transparent, violet eyes looking at him intently. The trousers he’s in fit immaculately, but there’s something strange about the shirt he’s wearing; its inky black, looking more like skin than fabric.

A though worms itself into his mind. He wants to touch it, figure out what elements it’s made of. 

“You’re awake,” the man says, before approaching him in a near rush, wrapping strong arms around his body. He tenses for a long moment before he relaxes into the embrace. “You were asleep for a long time,” he says carefully. His eyes are violet, pupils vertical like a cat’s. It can’t be natural. “I thought… maybe he wasn’t good enough.” The man’s gaze turns from him to the body on the floor.

“That thing is a person?”

“You— he—,” the man begins, “I recruited him. To bring you back, he…” the man turns and looks at the dead body. He doesn’t seem to be avoiding discussing anything, though he isn’t sure how much longer he’s going to be able to stand not knowing this man’s name. “He had to die,” the pale man says. “It was nothing personal.”

It’s a strange thing to admit, probably. But he doesn’t care. He sure as hell isn’t going to mourn a dead creepy thing, even if nothing the pale man said makes any sense. “Who are you?” he finally asks, when it’s becoming clear the pale man isn’t going to be giving him any useful information unprompted. He looks so achingly familiar, something in him telling him that this man is important. More than important, since he’s the first familiar anything he’s seen. But his mind is a mess of fragments of images and voices, there’s nothing concrete he can grasp right now. Just the knowledge that they _know_ each other, in ways he’s not sure he can articulate.

The pale man pauses for a long moment, like he’s gathering his thoughts. “You named me Greed,” he says. As if that’s supposed to make sense.

“I don’t _remember_ any of that shit!” he yells, pulling himself to his feet, trying to shove the man out of his way. “Why the hell would I call someone Greed?! That’s not even a name!” None of this makes any sense, he’s lost and confused. He doesn’t even know his own goddamn name! “I don’t understand what’s happening to me,” he admits, walking away from the other man, to look for anything in the dingy room that looks as familiar as the pale man. He’s hyperventilating, confused and not _understanding_ , and then strong arms wrap around him.

“I’m sorry,” Greed says, and he feels himself relaxing despite how confused he still is. “I needed you back.” He walks back towards him, once again wrapping his arms in an embrace. It should piss him off that someone keeps wanting to get their hands all over him, but it doesn’t.

None of this makes sense, but right now, he doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t know his own goddamn name. But he feels safe in the man’s arms, twisting out of his grip just so he can turn and look at the man. They’re nearly the same height, and though Greed’s eyes are unnatural, he looks familiar. Comforting, almost. His gaze drops a little lower, at the strange mark beneath his left clavicle. There’s something about it, almost familiar. A snake eating its tail. He reaches his hand out to touch it, feel the man’s skin. How the inky cloth feels like flesh rather than cotton. “You’re not human,” he says finally.

“No,” Greed agrees. “Neither are you.”

“What’s my name?”

“Your name is— was— Zolf J Kimbley.” Which doesn’t help. He doesn’t feel any attachment for the name at all. “I know a homunculus is named after a sin, but I don’t… I’m not sure how,” he adds hesitantly, frowning a little. Greed moves to run a hand through his hair, and he lets him. It’s comforting. Familiar, too. Greed petting his hair is another one of those achingly familiar things. He wants to keep experiencing these familiar things. “We are born when a human attempts to bring back the dead.”

So he’s dead. Was dead. That makes sense, actually. It would explain the lack of any context for things he has; who knows how long he’s actually been dead. But it doesn’t really explain why he has so many holes in his memories, and why Greed is so achingly familiar.

“How many are there?”

“I don’t know,” Greed admits with a little shrug, his eyes narrowed in thought. “I would imagine no more than seven could exist at a time.”

“If we’re all named for sins,” he says after a moment, smirking a little. “Then what’s mine?”

Greed appears to consider this. “Pride, maybe. You were always so confident of yourself. Envy and Sloth don’t fit you— and I have no idea if they’re still alive. Wrath, maybe.”

Something from a forgotten past flashes in his mind. _Comrade Killer._ “Wrath,” he says, even while Greed continues to speculate what name is best for him aloud. “Wrath sounds right.” 

Greed’s smile is tight and pleased. “Wrath it is,” he agrees.

It’s only now that he’s realized he’s completely naked, and Greed is clothed. It’s kind of annoying, a little humiliating. Even if he doubts Greed did it intentionally, he seems too singularly fixated, even if Wrath doesn’t have a point of reference. “Where did you get those black clothes from?” he asks, peeling away from the other homunculus so he can explore the shack, circling around it carefully. He can see just fine in the dark, he barely needs the meager source of light coming from a hole in the ceiling and lightening. 

“Concentrate,” Greed says unhelpfully. “Think and it will come to you, too.” He follows close behind, his hand moving to rest affectionately on Wrath’s shoulder. He leans into the touch. It’s warm, familiar. He does as suggested, though, trying to visualize some sort of covering. What does Greed look like without those clothes, anyway? It doesn’t look like he could have created the trousers; they’re made of actual cloth, not the weird… skin covering. 

The noise outside is irritating; it’s hard to concentrate, between the storm, the wind, the sound of the rain on the roof. And the rain leaking through onto the floor. He’s definitely not going to want to stay here for longer than he has to. It’s warm enough, he supposes, but the floor is damp and cold and makes him think of unpleasant things; of the dark, the cold. A blanket that’s both too thin and too short to adequately cover him.

Wrath closes his eyes. He feels the inky covering snaking its way across his chest, his legs. He opens his eyes after a long moment, turning to gaze at Greed as his fingers snake through his hair. It’s strange, affectionate. But he doesn’t hate it, doesn’t want to yank himself away from the touch. Clothed now, he doesn’t feel so exposed. Without something to do, he stares at his hands, frowning at his palms. There’s something incredibly off about them, though he can’t place it.

His left palm is soft-looking, completely free of any markings, even though that _doesn’t_ feel right at all, and his right palm has the same strange symbol Greed has on his chest. He wants to ask about his hands, wants to think that Greed must know about the man he used to be, what he must feel to have wanted him back so badly. He wants answers, wants to know about himself because hell if he knows where he should even start. But that’s not the question he asks. It’s out before he can stop himself. “Were we lovers?”

“Yes,” Greed says, and that’s all Wrath needs as he turns to face the other man.

Though his eyes are violet and alien, Greed’s face is unmistakably familiar. His hairline, even the immaculate way he’s chosen to style his hair. Yeah, that sounds right. No memories are coming to him, but the bone-deep rightness about this man is good enough for him right now.

Wrath’s feet are still bare, but that doesn’t stop him from tapping his foot lightly on the wooden floor. He wraps his arms around Greed’s shoulders, leaning into the man. He brushes his fingertips along the strange inky clothing that feels like skin. For someone so pale, he’s surprisingly warm. Clearly not a vampire, then, Wrath jokes to himself. Greed’s watching him curiously, and clearly unthreatened by having Wrath’s hands touching his body. “Feels humans,” he murmurs to himself. Greed, apparently content not to say anything at the moment, wraps one arm around Wrath.

There’s so much he doesn’t remember, but he’s going to be okay with that, he’s pretty sure. Especially considering Greed’s plan of “bringing him back” worked about as well as it could. But Wrath has a feeling there’s more to Greed’s ambitions than tricking some creepy monster into creating a homunculus.

At some point, he’ll have to ask about what he was fed before he became fully aware of his surroundings, but he’s not worried about it yet, tracing a finger along Greed’s chest.

“What are you going to do next?” he purrs. It comes to him suddenly, the person who looks like Greed. His name probably doesn’t matter now, but he had the same confident look Greed is wearing, with piercing blue eyes instead of the deep violet. He could have accomplished just about anything. Wrath wants to see it happen. He wants to know what a homunculus is capable of. Do they have special powers of some kind? There’s so much to do, so much Wrath wants to know. He’s not going to be content cooped up in here for much longer.

Greed smiles, collected and confident. “I have a few ideas.”

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to [Gravesecret](https://gravesecret.tumblr.com/) for providing the gorgeous art for this fic. It was a pleasure!


End file.
